


The Third Date

by themountainkingsreturn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Gen, science geekery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themountainkingsreturn/pseuds/themountainkingsreturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That one time Molly Hooper dumped Jim Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Date

Of course, she'd been perfectly honest when she said she ended it after three dates. That was absolutely the truth. Molly Hooper never lied. Well, hardly ever. There was that one time she told her boss she'd watched the American Presidential Inauguration, when really she'd spent all night curled up watching Coronation Street and eating crisps. But as a rule, she tried not to lie outright. She was simply good at neglecting to mention things.

In this case, what she neglected to mention was that the day Jim met Sherlock _was_ the third date.

The week before, on the second date, they'd gone out for lunch at the little cafe three blocks down, the one with the red awning and the menu on large chalkboards mounted on the wall. Molly stood on tiptoe to see over a tall, blonde man, darting a look at Jim every once in a while. He wasn't bad looking, really, and he had a quiet sort of affability. Molly sometimes got the feeling that what he said only really scraped the surface of what he thought, and she liked that. She was still working up to whether or not she would like to kiss him, but she decided that, after all, it was best to take these things slow.

They ordered their food and found a table in a corner. Halfway through their sandwiches, Jim brought up the lab.

"They don't let us out of our cage much, see" he said. "And we're not allowed down in the labs unless there's something wrong with the computers."

"The lab's nice," Molly said pensively, frowning as she realigned the bread around her egg and cress, "but it's not very interesting. I mean, unless you really think PCR and ELISA tests are all that fun."  What she failed to mention was that she found PCR and ELISAs absolutely fascinating.

"Eliza?" Jim tilted his head. He did it a lot, and it reminded Molly of a puppy. She suppressed a fond smile and flapped her hand dismissively. 

"It's a test to find things in the blood. If you want to see if someone was fighting a certain disease, or if they had the antibodies present, things like that. Sorry, I don't want to just go off about science, I know it's dull, sorry…."

"No, it's…" Jim smiled and looked down, and Molly realized with a certain degree of shock that he was actually blushing. He twiddled with the chain that disappeared under his shirt.

"I'd actually love to see you do an Eliza test. Or a PCP," he said quietly, looking up.

"PCR," Molly whispered.

"Oh, god, sorry," Jim said with a nervous laugh, and buried his face in his hands.

"No, don't worry," Molly giggled as he resurfaced, looking abashed. "I'd…love to show you. I'm sure we can smuggle you in somehow."

Jim grinned widely.

* * *

 At least the debacle in the lab had been short.

Molly left St. Barts with a pounding heart, the door swinging in her wake, Jim trailing behind her. Sherlock’s voice ( _gay_ ) was pinging around her head like a monosyllabic tennis ball. Jim had gone on dates with her, hadn't he? He'd even come home with her. Admittedly, all they'd done was watch Glee and talk about traveling abroad over a couple glasses of wine, but didn't that count for something? Oh, god, wait, no. It sounded even worse when you put it that way.

"Molly, are you okay?" Jim touched her arm lightly, and she started. It wasn't because of the touch itself, but more because it was Jim doing the touching. As she turned to look at him, she suddenly realized that the moment in the lab had been the first time Jim had really voluntarily touched her. He'd put his hand on her back. He'd never done that before. And this made the second time he'd touched her. But this detail, too, she pushed into the back of her mind, and grimaced apologetically.

"I'm sorry, that's Sherlock, he can be really — "

"I know," said Jim, and something about his face stopped her dead in the middle of another apology. She'd never realized how dark his eyes were under his heavy lids. They were almost pitch black. They unsettled her. He was standing very close, too, just staring at her with a blank, dead expression. She took a cautious step back.

"Jim, I'm so sorry about what he said back there. He's a right git sometimes, but I promise he's alright." She tried to smile reassuringly, but the smile froze on her face as Jim tilted his head. She'd been wrong. It wasn't like a puppy. It was reptilian. It was a tilt and then a slight twist of the chin, like a reptile surveying its prey, all while he stared down at her with those black eyes.

"No, he was very good." Jim's voice was soft, changed somehow.

Molly stared up at him and swallowed hard.

"Jim, it's been very nice," she began quaveringly. Her own voice sounded feeble and hoarse, and she cleared her throat and looked down at her hands twisting in the folds of her coat. "But I think I'd rather just be friends."

"Oh," said Jim, flat. He turned away slightly and seemed to watch the oncoming traffic from their vantage point on the steps. "I'm sorry to hear that." 

"Yes — well — me too," Molly stammered. She followed Jim's gaze to a black car that was slowing as it approached Bart's. "I mean, I'm sorry to say it. I really am, Jim. You're — you're a wonderful guy and I've really enjoyed this, you're such a lovely person, but I think maybe it's just not — " She left off mid-sentence as Jim turned away abruptly and walked to the curb. She stared at him, furious and confused, and then utterly baffled, as the black car stopped in front of him. He opened the back door and turned to her with a smile that was all jagged glass and black empty eyes.

 "Thank you for your help, Molly Hooper," he said, and it was not Jim's voice she heard, not the Jim she knew. It was a stranger's Dublin lilt and a stranger's body that slid into the car and shut the door. As the car sped away, she caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar silhouette in the driver's seat — a tall, blonde man in a leather jacket.

She didn't tell anyone except her cat. And she most certainly didn't tell Sherlock, because the next time she saw him, he knew. Well, not about how it ended, but he knew about Jim being what he was, and soon she knew, too. The man on trial only bore a passing resemblance to the man she'd spent a whole night watching telly with, but it was impossible not to recognize him. She listened to the trial coverage as she sat at her small kitchen table with a cup of tea, and the pieces fell into place with sickening swiftness. Of course. Of course. Yes, of course. She turned off the radio and changed into her pyjamas and resolved to be perfectly honest. She'd gone on three dates (or nearly) with the most dangerous criminal in the world, and then dumped him. No one needed to know exactly how or why. They only needed to know the truth. Molly allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she climbed into bed. _Well played, Hooper_ , she thought.


End file.
